


PSYCHO.

by wanderwithme (wanderlustt)



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Crack, Dorks in Love, F/M, Flirtationships, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Tags will be updated to reflect rating 8), Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22376707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme
Summary: "Are you seriously trying to extort a member of the Phantom Thieves?”“Um, yeah?”“Alright, good luck with that.”In which you try to extort Akira Kurusu to do your homework for you, which gradually turns into Akira extorting you for much, much worse.
Relationships: Amamiya Ren (Persona Series)/Reader, Kurusu Akira/Reader
Comments: 23
Kudos: 153





	1. Chapter 1

_Cool girls_ are out of style.

They're pathetic, desperate has-beens, just like apprentice maikos in the modern era of commercialized host clubs and Christian bands from the 90s.

In fact, there's a whole movie bemoaning it. You'd think with the advent of contemporary feminism, cool girls would be obsolete. Or extinct _._ Like dinosaurs and paying for porn. But they're not. They're out and about, hotter than ever, dry-swallowing corn dogs like they're going out of production and snatching up the hearts of wannabe misanthropists who actually have money to spare.

And, well, that's you.

You are a textbook cool girl.

And it's not just because nearly all your friends are fuckboys, or the fact that you're hosting a damned reverse-harem at your lunch table every day. It's because they're offering you _stuff_ on a silver platter -- sweetbread from the bakery, their bento boxes from home, and a freakin' gaming console -- all too willing to cast away whatever dignity they have, and for what? A blowjob?

(No blowjob can be that good.)

Frankly, Akira's never really seen you around without your flock of desperate fuckboys, except that _one time_ you barged into his classroom to bother Mishima about something. _Something, something,_ taking too long in the bathroom. _Something, something,_ his mom and dad probably being disappointed with his falling grades. He wonders why you'd care so much, but you leave just as quickly and actually make Mishima roll his eyes, which is actually kind of a miracle because Mishima would never roll his eyes at anything with ovaries.

So when you approach Akira after school with a half-smile that spells trouble and say, "Hey, dipshit. Guess what? I've figured you out," he finds himself woefully, _woefully_ unprepared for this conversation.

For one, _you’ve_ caught him at possibly the worst time: trying to beat rush hour on the way to the train station (he has a clinical trial he’s promised to do; he has chores at Cafe Leblanc; and he's also trying to cram in an hour or two of studying before he takes off for Hawaii next week)—and two, and maybe more offensively, you’re a literal stranger to him.

You pull out your phone, where you have the Phan-site pulled up, and shove it into his face. “Our whole family shares the same desktop at home," you tell him. "And my idiot brother decided not to clear his cookies.”

It takes him a moment to realize you're talking about Mishima -- Mishima, _your brother_. Mishima has a sister. You are Mishima's sister. Holy shit. Why did it take him so long to put two and two together?

But whatever thought he has about you being related to his idiot confidant is apparently gone as he stares at the index page because he knows he’s royally, _royally_ fucked.

" _Listen_ , this isn't--"

He doesn’t get a chance to even plead plausible deniability because you have more to say with that shit-eating smirk on your face. “So here’s the deal," you say, turning the lock screen on. "I want you to do my homework every day for the rest of the semester. Along with projects, extra credit assignments, and essays. If you comply, I'll agree to keep your identity secret -- that's what you want, isn't it?"

Truthfully, Akira has two options here. He can relent and play along with your dirty little scheme (he’ll have to do your homework for you but _whatever_ , there are truly dumber punishments you can enlist).

Or he can call your bluff and ignore your very real, very much looming threat.

“Are you seriously trying to extort a member of the Phantom Thieves?”

His delivery is cool, near-monotone, and as he offers you a look of disdain, leaning against the brick gates like he has better places to be, you realize he doesn’t give a flying fuck.

You arch a brow. “Um, yeah.” You sound a little less confident this time.

He looks at you through the glint in his glasses, like you’re an absolutely worthless and time-wasting shitstain on his otherwise immaculate day. This kind of stuff probably worked with your harem of fuckboys -- he's somewhat grateful you found him out first because there's no doubt in his mind that someone like Ryuji would take the bait and run with it -- but it definitely will not work on him.

“Good luck with that,” he tells you because it seems like you’ll need it.

As he takes a step back out onto the street, you hold out your phone again, a block of text sitting in full on the screen. “All I have to do is press publish and your name will be on display for all the world to see,” you say, all aversions to losing your confidence apparently gone as you meet his gaze. “Think about it carefully.”

OK, so maybe you’re not bluffing.

“Also, if I get even a whiff that you’ve let your merry band of idiots know about our deal -- _especially miss prez herself --_ I’ll also hit publish,” you tack on, smiling brightly, _so brightly in fact that he’s all but forgotten that you’re fucking threatening him_. “Sound good?”

Somewhere in his bag, he feels Morgana shift. “You’re just gonna let her do you dirty like that?” He snaps, voice muffled by cloth—and um, well, yeah.

He is. For now, at least.

*

 **you** : hey  
 **you** : i just emailed u the pdf of the assignments  
 **you** : lmk if u have any questions

Akira gazes indifferently at the screen of messages, wondering if he should bail out of this deal and tell someone he's being extorted. Well, he knows the answer to that. He _can_ tell someone, but it's a matter of _should_ and maybe more importantly _who._

Ryuji and Ann are out of the question. Neither of them can keep a secret to save their lives. Makoto's not bad at first thought, but she would no doubt try to confront you and work something out in the name of compromise -- and you don't really seem like the kind of girl who's down to meet someone else halfway. Yusuke would likely offer him some pseudo-intellectual bullshit about evolution of extortion in the post-industrialized world, which, _hey_ , isn't wrong, but isn't very helpful either.

He can keep Futaba on standby, or maybe even ask her to take over operations of the Phan-site, but it's Mishima's baby and even Akira's not cruel enough to rip away what's essentially his passion project.

 **akira** : yeah i have a question  
 **akira** : this is third-year material

 **you** : ? what's the question ?

 **akira:** i'm a second year

 **you** : ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Morgana frowns. "You can't just let her get away with this."

"Do you have a better idea?"

He unleashes a shameful _meow_ and tucks himself into the safety of Akira's pillow. "No, but I will," he mutters. He's been grumpier lately, but Akira's not in the mood to ask why.

Because he knows there's only one person he can confide in.

 **akira** : we need to talk

He sighs when he sends off the text into the ether.

* * *

“I’m so, _so_ , so sorry."

Mishima bows low, bent at the waist like an L. “She's a living nightmare," he explains, sounding very much wounded. "I know she’s my sister, but she’s older and, and, and -- I don't know what to do about her! I can’t control her. She's like a ticking time bomb, but _bitchier_! You think you’ve got it bad? She—”

It goes on just like that: she’s a femme fatale, senselessly cruel, _a freakin’ psycho_ and a _slut_ , which seems like a pretty moot point given all the other grievances, but hey, whatever.

Akira scratches the back of his head. "It's fine." It's not, but he can't stand much more of Mishima's oversaturated diatribe filled with wallowing and self-pity. It's not very helpful and frankly it's getting a bit boring. "She's a senior, right? I just have to put up with it for another six months."

But Mishima is adamant, cornering him at his desk. "At least let me help you do her homework!"

Speak of the devil and You shall appear.

"If I wanted you to do my homework, I would've," you nearly sing, stepping through the open door of their homeroom. "But your grades suck ass and Kurusu-kun here ranked top 10 in his last finals. So," and you look at him expectantly, fingers laced behind your back. "You got the goods?"

Mishima frowns, "You're actually the _worst_."

You tap your finger against your lower lip, cocking your head to the side, being all pretend-cute with that confused look on your face. "What does that make you? Even worse than the worst."

One of the guys from your harem calls out your name from the halls. "Are you done?"

"In a minute!"

Another shoves his head into the frame of the door, looking around like a hound in search of its duck. "Smells like second years," he murmurs.

You laugh, "Just go without me!"

"This whole thing was your idea!"

Mishima rolls his eyes. "Nice dogs you got there," he snaps -- but as soon as he meets their gazes, he looks away, flustered and embarrassed because there's no doubt in his mind they'd beat him to a pulp if you decided to give the order.

"What can I say, I have them on a tight leash," you reply, shrugging, shifting your attention back to Akira. "Now. Homework."

He fishes out your homework from the depths of his desk, not without studying that look on your face like you've discovered some lost treasure. Which it is, basically, since he spent the whole night learning new concepts and catching up on reading -- _your reading_.

"Aw, thank you!" You take the papers and pat him on the cheek. "You're such a good boy." And as you turn away, you offer one last look of utter contempt at Mishima. "See ya, idiot."

"Go suck a dick, ugly."

"What's wrong with sucking dicks?"

"Ugh, _you're gross_. Go away."

You tug at the skin underneath your eye and stick your tongue out at him before taking off into the hallway, where your harem of fuckboys have gathered, laughing at something funny you say. One of them remarks loudly that you look cute today, which isn't too far off from the truth -- _you do look cute_ , but so do meerkats and they're the genocidal slave-drivers of the animal kingdom.

Akira offers a sympathetic look at Mishima, who's resigned to burying his face in his desk. "Cheer up," he says, offering him a pat on the shoulder, not sure why he's the one doing the comforting. "We'll be in Hawaii next week."

Truthfully, he can't wait.

At least he'll be free of you.

* * *

It starts raining after school.

No, not raining.

Pouring.

Cats and dogs.

A torrential flood.

Akira decides to get a head start on his homework, _his homework and yours_ , in the library, and shuffles out when the hours come to a close. He considers picking up a shift at Crossroads in Shinjuku, but Morgana is hungry, and crankier than usual, so he decides to head out first.

Naturally, he comes to a halting stop when he finds you standing there by the entrance, waiting outside under the safety of the awning, your harem of fuckboys nowhere to be found.

It's late in the day, so he's not too surprised, but seeing you alone is kind of like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs. It's not out of the realm of possibility, but it's still _weird_. And discomforting.

"She looks kind of lonely, don't you think?" Morgana says, peeking out the hole of Akira's bag. No surprise he's thinking the exact same thing; after all those months of being roommates, they've developed an unspoken telepathy. "Maybe you should offer to walk her to the station?"

Still, Akira frowns. "And conveniently ignore the fact that she's extorting the Phantom Thieves?"

Morgana considers it quietly from the confines of the bag. "Hm...you're probably right."

Then, suddenly, you reach a hand out, catching the raindrops as they fall heavy from the sky. The smallest little smile forms on your face and the look you have is one of childlike wonder, like this is the first time you've ever seen rain in your life, and that can't be right -- you live in _Japan --_ which means the alternative is you actually enjoy this kind of weather. Somehow that's even more disconcerting.

Whatever thoughts Akira had about calling you out, _or ignoring you outright_ , have apparently vanished because he makes a B-line for you from the halls with his umbrella in tow.

But you look over your shoulder and catch his gaze, that smile on your face vanishing into nothing -- and he's left wondering if he's given you reason to pause. "Hey," you say, somewhat stiffly, even though you're brandishing a new smile that could kill. "You're still here?"

He decides not to beat around the bush. "Yeah, doing your homework."

That smile of yours doesn't reach your eyes, and something about it makes him stiffen but it's unrelentingly bright. Like staring into the sun too long only to have your vision bleed black spots. "I'm so glad you're holding true to our deal. You're a good boy," you tell him, shifting your gaze back to the rain. It's _loud_ , really loud, and truthfully Akira has some trouble hearing you, so he leans a little closer only to realize you have nothing else to offer him.

"Does she think you're a dog or something?" Morgana whines, somewhat pitifully through muffled cloth. "Why do you let her talk to you like that?"

You blink, staring at his bag. "What was that?" You lean a little closer and he gets a whiff of your shampoo, summery and sweet.

He takes a step back. "What was what?"

You blink again, narrowing your gaze at the bag. "I just...heard a meow. Like a cat."

"You don't have an umbrella, right?" He interjects, hoping it'll be enough to turn the topic without setting off any alarms. He elbows his bag, which elicits a groan of knowing from Morgana. "I can walk you to the station."

Your gaze is fixed on the rain, the way it pelts the ground like bullets only to bounce right back up and soak your tights wet. "Sure," you sing, smiling at him again -- another practiced smile that never reaches your eyes because that seems like all you can do in that moment.

He opens his umbrella, big enough for two, and steps into the rain first.

But you bolt right past him, right down the steps of Shujin, and your uniform is soaked through in a matter of seconds. When you turn back to look at him, it's with a wide grin.

"What're you doing?" He snaps, hurrying down the steps, careful not to slip because the water's rushing down like the dam's been broken. " _You_ \--"

"Race ya!"

And without warning, you take off running.

For whatever reason, he decides to run after you.

*

The platform is congested with nonstop bustle, assembly lines of people writhing in place for the next open cart. It smells like sweat, like rain _mixed with sweat_ which is somehow worse than sweat itself, but the bane of being here is the fact that he can't find you among the sea of strangers waiting for the next train to come. What with rush hour, _the shitty weather_ , and the throngs of eager students waiting to get home, it's like trying to find a needle in a haystack. The chatter's too loud, the lines are too long, and there's not enough space to move, let alone breathe properly.

"Why did you run so fast?" Morgana murmurs from the bag. "I'm nauseous!"

His phone starts buzzing, and he's about to decline when he sees your name on the caller ID.

"Hey!" Your voice is cheerful; it sounds sandwiched between a rock and a hard place. "You lost the race."

"We were racing? _What the hell was--"_

"Look up."

And for whatever reason, he obeys, and catches you waving across the platform. You're totally drenched, leaving a fat puddle wherever you step. Your hair's tangled and your crisp white button up is totally see-through, sticking to every curve of your body, and it's only then he catches himself staring at your chest because, well, you're pretty well endowed.

"Eyes up here, dipshit."

" _Don't call me dipshit_ ," he grouses.

But you hang up, shove your phone back into your bag, and all he hears is the dial tone. You fish out a notebook -- a notebook and a pen -- and you scribble something down before holding it up in the air:

_**Thanks for walking me to the station!**_

_**Love you more than cake!** _

He just stares at you incredulously, feeling Morgana shift uncomfortably in his bag. "Lemme see, lemme see!" He says, and when he peeks over and sees your little sign, he cocks his head to the side as the train pulls into the station, smooth as butter across the tracks.

You filter in first, find yourself a spot by the door, and he walks up to you, meeting your gaze from the other side of the glass. You smile at him and he notices your smile reaches your eyes this time as you push up yet another sheet of rain-soaked paper to the window of your train cart.

_**I hate cake. ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ** _

The train takes off and he's left staring at the end of the cart, wondering.

"She's...really weird," Morgana offers unhelpfully as he peers out the edge of Akira's bag. Having witnessed nearly every event that's transpired between Akira and you since your first encounter, it comes as no surprise that he'd be the first to interject with a somewhat obvious opinion. "Do you really think someone like that could be capable of extortion?"

For a while, he considers it because, well, it's a question worth considering.

"I don't have to think about it because she already has," Akira decides, lamenting.

* * *

He stares listlessly at the ceiling of his room, counting the cracks in the wood that look chipped and older than him.

Morgana resumes his perch by the window, licking his paws. "We should do something about her," he says, doing a little shimmy to get rid of all the moisture trapped in his fur. "You don't want to do her homework forever, do you?"

"Of course not," he answers, sighing. There's still drips of rain caught on the frame of his glasses and he removes them, tucking them away on his nightstand, before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "What do you suggest?"

Morgana _meows_ a lustful little meow, grinning -- well, grinning as much as a cat can grin. "I'm glad you asked," he says. "Because I thought of a plan while you were sleeping on the train. One that won't put the others in danger."

"A plan?"

He nudges the phone sitting pretty on the nightstand. "Open the nav."

"You want to infiltrate her heart?" Akira sighs. "You don't even know if she has a palace. What're you basing this on?"

"Call it _myeow_ intuition."

He grabs his phone, opens the nav. "We don't have a location."

"Try _home_."

Still, he's skeptical. "And the keyword?"

Morgana has a glint in his eye like he's been bestowed some divine revelation from the gods. " _Dog_."

Akira obeys: he says your name, _home_ , and dog -- and lo and behold, the nav starts buzzing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this is late.... but hello..... i'm very egg-cited for scramble & royal :)

In hindsight _, of course you had a palace._

And your palace— _if you can really call it one_ —is muzzled and small, a shack of a house in subterranean Tokyo. But subterranean doesn't quite do it justice: it's a literal sewer system, compact with industrial beams, rusted pipes, and murky green water.

But as far as palaces go, it looks normal.

That's no surprise to Joker, of course. Most palaces tend to look normal from the outset. Kamoshida's palace, though a castle, looked like something out of a cheesy fantasy theme park. Madarame's palace was a museum, albeit a gaudy one plastered in fool's gold. And if you took away that ridiculous flying pancake sitting underneath, Kaneshiro's palace was essentially a bank vault, albeit a labyrinth of one. Even Futaba's palace, a pyramid, felt real enough to have been plucked from the sands of Giza. They were all derivatives of reality and yours was no different.

Morgana studies the shack and cocks his head to the side, wondering. "There's no sunlight here," he says somewhat obviously, though he's not wrong. Your house is totally underground, tucked away in the shadows of a brown waterfall.

"Seems that way." Joker ducks behind a steel beam, assessing the state of your home, ramshackled and old, gaping holes where your windows should be. "Doesn't look like we'll have a hard time getting in."

"Oh--look! Her projection!"

There you are.

Strolling straight out the front door of your shack, at least a dozen or more dogs swarming your feet. They're barking incessantly, whining like they haven't been fed for days, and all of them stop just short of jumping at you. Excited, but respectful. No, not respectful.

 _Fearful_.

"Safe to say she's a dog person," Joker quips, voice utterly devoid of any affection as he watches you from the shadows of the beam. 

You're whistling a soft tune he recognizes, but can't quite put his finger on. The hounds are nipping at your heels, following you down the pathway towards the concrete jungle of industrial pipes. Truthfully, had he not seen your face, he surely would've mistook you or someone else, _someone_ far more...provocative.

Because you're the one wearing a cowboy hat, along with a duster jacket covered in fringe and tassels. But if that's not enough, you have a sawed-off shotgun hanging from your shoulder the size of a canon, along with two glocks hanging loose from your waistband. The waistband of your underwear, of course, because you're literally wearing nothing underneath that jacket except your undergarments. Your bra and panties, which happen to be lace and white, along with an obscene gold belt with the words _**eat me**_ stamped on the buckle.

Everything about your outfit is obnoxious, loud, and not so subtle at all, but the ludicrousness is enough to make even Joker smile. Wryly, of course.

"Looks like she's off," says Morgana, sounding weirdly peeved as you untuck a glock from the holster of your belt. You toss it in the air with a flip and catch it wordlessly on your index finger, still humming that soft little tune. "She's distracted -- let's go look for a way in."

The hounds bolt off into the distance and you pull the trigger.

Thirteen bullets sound off into the air with a deafening punch.

Thirteen dogs drop to the ground.

Dead.

Nothing follows in their wake, not even a whimper, but the surviving hounds run off down the pathway. Joker counts at least three of them, but his breath catches in his throat before he can get a grasp on the situation.

"She just killed them," Morgana says, swallowing.

As you stand there in the aftermath, still whistling that incessant tune, Joker catches a whiff of gunpowder in the air. Gunpowder...and blood. They hang heavy, and only then does he catch a whimper from one of the hounds on the ground while you circle towards him with a hop, sounding off your shotgun at the last survivor, leaving nothing but silence in your wake.

"Here comes the big bad wolf!" You sing, skipping off towards the concrete jungle after the dogs that were smart enough to run first.

Joker, of course, doesn't miss the fact that your breasts are bouncing, along with your thighs; and though the sight before him is revolting, some part of him finds it equally alluring and incendiary. "Well, guess I take that back. Dog person doesn't really do it justice, huh."

Morgana shivers, "I'll say. She's... _scary_." He looks at Joker, eyes full of resolve, and suddenly all aversions to fearing you are gone. "Let's go, Joker. This might be our only opening."

He agrees soundlessly, sprinting off towards your house first while Morgana follows closely from behind, never quite lowering his gaze from the concrete beams you took off towards. As they come closer, he notices something. The bodies lying on the ground aren't dogs--

"They're humans," says Morgana, staring wistfully at the corpses littering the floor. "They're..."

"Not just humans," Joker tacks on, studying the state of decay. "They're men."

And it's true -- all the naked bodies littering the ground are undoubtedly men. Some of them have been shot straight through the head, while others have been shot in the abdomen. Their fates, nonetheless, are certain: imminent death awaits them in moments to come.

They're fading to sand, to _dust_ , rising up into the air only to be carried away by the breeze. No doubt they would be reborn -- no doubt they would relive this same exact fate.

Morgana's face contorts, "I think I'm starting to understand her a little more now." A pause comes next, as another gunshot fires into the distance. "She thinks of men as disposable toys. Once they offer no use, she executes them. It's despicable."

Joker doesn't doubt this, but some part of him is hesitant too. Because he'd seen you that day -- the way you'd ran in rain, cradling each droplet like it was some precious jewel, some precious treasure only you could see. You'd looked so innocent, like a kid. Like a kid who was witnessing their first-ever rainfall.

Or maybe he's just thinking with his dick.

"Let's go," says Joker, running towards the backdoor of your shack, but Morgana's the one who lingers a moment longer to stare at the crows that fly into the sky, crying in your wake.

 _She's here,_ they sing.

*

The inside of your house is a different story, filled with dogs in cages.

It smells like shit, like literal shit, and Joker has to muffle his own nose as he slinks through the shadows of the corridor while Morgana, who's far more irritated with their predicament, groans past the whining and rusted grates. They can't quite see the dogs in the darkness of the chambers, but maybe he doesn't want to see it -- maybe he's afraid of what they'll look like in the light.

"Look!" Morgana shouts, motioning to a set of stairs in the distance. "Let's go, Joker."

He obliges, following him up the steps into a living den while the cries of hounds drowns away into the distance. Thankfully, it no longer smells like shit on the second floor, but it also feels like they've vanished into a different world -- there's sunlight streaming in through the windows, which is frankly impossible because you live in a literal slum; and everything about your house is modern and newly furnished, like you've gone out of your way to get an interior decorator. For all intents and purposes, everything looks normal, albeit a bit swanky.

Except the trophies hanging on the walls.

The trophies of severed heads.

 _Human heads_.

Behind the mask, Joker winces. "Guess she has a knack for decorating," he says, unconvincingly, trying hard to ignore the blood pouring from their eyes, _their noses_ , and their mouths. It's something straight out of a horror flick, but it's not: it's 100 percent your subconscious, which means you _want_ this. This is undoubtedly some part of your distorted desires.

"How can you be so cool about this?" Morgana says, parsing through the halls to look for another stairwall. "Even if this is a projection of her unconscious, even if this isn't _real_ , this is still something she wants."

You feel entitled to murder them like this. You feel entitled to their deaths, however torturous it may be.

Morgana discovers another set of stairs hiding behind the kitchen, and Joker follows along, catching sight of you in the window lugging along your sawed-off shotgun. You're still whistling that same old tune and only when he makes his way over does he recognize it.

It's a nursery rhyme.

_A school of killifish is in the little stream,_   
_Watch the stream quietly,_   
_Watch the stream quietly._   
_All of the killifish are playing happily._

*

It doesn't take long for Morgana to sniff out your treasure.

It's tucked away in the backroom of your house, _a childhood room_ , covered in frills and pinks. Dolls are scattered all over the floor, along with a number of outdated and unforgotten toys. It's carnage, girly carnage nonetheless, and it takes him a moment to recognize your treasure -- sitting above your twin-sized mattress. An immaterial blob just floating, wavering softly in the wind.

"Good," says Morgana, studying the contents of your room. "We should retreat and send out a calling card as soon as possible."

Joker nods, "Naturally."

" _Well, well, well, look what we have here_."

There you are, standing in the doorway of your bedroom with a half-smile that spells trouble and insincerity. Joker stiffens at the sight, hand resting on the hilt of his blade while Morgana readies his fighting stance. _Shit,_ he thinks, _I didn't hear her at all -- didn't even sense she was close_.

"Oh?" Your eyes soften and you pout. "Are you planning on fighting me?"

"Your heart is rotten," Morgana seethes, glaring at you. "You think of men -- no, _boys_ \-- as prey. Prey to hunt. It's despicable. Humanity isn't disposable, and neither are lives."

You yawn.

You actually yawn.

Morgana blanches. Apparently, this isn't the reaction he'd expected.

"Blah, _blah, blah_ ," you drawl, lazily, resting your gaze on Joker. "Your friend talks a lot, huh."

Yes. Yes he does.

Morgana blushes, "Hey!"

"How about this?" You smile, pointing your shotgun towards him, parsing the empty space between them for a moment before resting your sights on Morgana. "I'll give you both a head start. Whoever makes it alive...consider it a gesture of generosity."

"I hardly consider that generous!"

You ignore the cat, turning your attention back to Joker while the barrel of your gun sits fat on the cat. "Whoever gets caught becomes one of my dogs," you state, and when neither of them respond immediately -- instead turning to look at one another, the corners of your lips tug up to form the faintest little smile. "Ten... _nine_..."

Immediately, they bolt for the window, one right after the other while you stroll around your room, studying your treasure to see if it's been touched. "Eight...seven..."

Truthfully, you've always hated waiting.

"Six...five..."

You peer out the window to see them both bolting towards the concrete jungle.

"Four, three..." A yawn comes next as you rub the sleepiness away from your eyes. "Two..."

You grin.

"One."

Time's up.

*

Joker bolts ahead at lightspeed, crossing this way and that, dodging industrial beams left and right until he catches sight of the gate he'd entered through.

Somewhere in the hustle, he loses track of Morgana, which is fine -- he's almost sure the cat can handle his own -- until he fears a shotgun fire off into the distance.

He hears your whistle, which gives him no time to stop, and keeps running until he breaches the gate.

Only when he falls back into reality does he realize Morgana's missing.

"Shit."

*

Ryuji yawns.

"Damn, pretty girls are so freaking boring," he says, nodding at _you_ \--you in the courtyard with your posse of fuckboys and dipshits. Who all happen to be tall, toned, and objectively handsome in a very obvious way that probably makes him insecure and needy. "Being ugly builds character. Makes you more charming. More palatable."

Everything he says is full of emboldened fervor, like it's some gospel truth he's been spouting since the dawn of mankind. "That's probably why _you're_ so charming, Ann," he sniffs, which makes Ann's face contort with rage.

She stomps on his foot. He yelps.

"You're so shallow, Ryuji!" She snaps, stopping just short of punching him in the head because she's catches wind of Akira standing up from his perch in the courtyard and passing straight by them like a ghost. "Hey, where are you going?"

He doesn't answer, striding towards you.

For the record, he gets where Ryuji is coming from. But maybe boring is the wrong word. Unremarkable is more like it. Unremarkably...awful. Just plain awful. He wouldn't have guessed from the way you presented yourself -- full of whimsy and cheer -- but now that he's seen the depths of your distorted desires, he knows exactly what you are and _who you are_. He doesn't realize, of course, that he's speeding up, parting the ocean of fuckboys like Moses and the Red Sea until he reaches you.

You smile, congenially, "Akira-kun--"

He grabs you by the wrist, "I need to talk to you," is all he offers before whisking you away while your pack of hounds just stare in shock, unsure whether to confront him or to cry teacher.

"Oi, that hurts," you mutter, clutching your wrist to your chest. "What's your deal?"

It's not until he drags you to a secluded section of the courtyard that he stops and hands you a card.

You stare at it, careful to hold it between your thumb and forefinger. "Um, what in the fuckery is this?" You toss it back his way like a frisbee, only for him to catch it the same, shoving it right back into your hands, roughly this time.

"Read it," he states plainly -- coldly, and this time he holds your hands steady to make sure the card is firm in your grasp.

You cock your head to the side, looking down at the contents.

"To the evil bitch of Class 3A--"

At this, your face contorts. "Evil...bitch? Really?" You peer over the card at Akira, who looks nonetheless indifferent at your plight.

"Go on."

You oblige, not without taking a breath and sighing. " _We know you've been blackmailing male students_ _to do your bidding_ ," you say, arching a brow. "Like a pack of slave-dogs, you've been treating them like disposable sacrifices. We'll make you confess your crimes. Sincerely yours, The Phantom Th ** _i_** ves of Hearts."

He waits for you to digest the threat, but you just blink.

"The other cards were a bit more eloquent, weren't they?" You say, sounding somewhat wounded. "Look, even Phantom Thieves is misspelled. How come mine sounds like it was written by..." But when you meet his gaze, you sneer. "Never mind."

He takes a step forward, "Say it."

"Say what?" You pout. "You're gonna have to be more spec--"

He grabs you by the collar of your shirt, like some old school bully, and you actually laugh. "Just. _Say. It_."

Anxiously, you scratch the side of your cheek. "It sounds like it was written by a preschooler," you whisper, cupping your hand over his ear. "I mean, you're the one who wrote this, right?"

And here he thought it was kind of good. Maybe Makoto and Ryuji did have some kind of talent.

You pluck your phone from your pocket, "But since you broke the rules of our agreement, I hope you don't mind if I press publish--"

Before you even get the chance to open the Phan-site, he snatches the phone from your hand and suddenly you're jumping his bones, tackling him to the cold concrete of the courtyard, making him grunt, which gets the attention of your dog pack along with Ryuji and Ann, who are watching from the distance by the vending machines.

You jut out a hand towards your phone, grappling with his weight, and he feels your breasts press against his chest, but this fight somehow devolves with you being pinned underneath his weight while he holds out your phone above your head. "Don't struggle," he snaps at you, as if you're a toddler. "You're just going to hurt yourself."

At this, you relent, staring up to meet his gaze.

You think he's quite a pretty boy, even if he is the fucking spawn of Satan. His lankiness and general string-bean demeanor have done him a great disservice, however, because he's a lot stronger than he looks. And now that his full weight is pressed against you, you realize he's actually quite fit.

"Good," he says, voice cold and indifferent. "Good girl."

Wow, that's pretty insulting, considering the fact that it's _your_ catch phrase, not to mention he's the one who tackled you into the ground like a damned linebacker.

The others are closing in on you and your face twists when he slips your phone away into his back pocket.

"Um. Akira."

He looks at you, " _What_." 

You glance around, looking everywhere except his eyes, and only when you do does he realize he's made one fatal error.

"You're, um, hard..."

He blinks.

It takes him a moment to digest this because he does, in fact, have a giant erection pressing between your thighs.

Another moment passes and a blush kisses his cheeks.

And another as the others make their way up the pathway.

The corners of your lips tug up to form a smile, "Wow. _Wow... you must really wanna fuck--"_

He muffles your mouth with his hand, all but forgetting the calling card, the fact that he's straddling you in the middle of the courtyard, and the fact that he probably has a lot of explaining to do now that your angry group of fuckboys are closing in. Perhaps even more now that Ann and Ryuji have caught sight of your predicament.

It's not what it seems, he thinks. _I swear it's not what it seems_.

But you're the one who pushes away his hand first.

"We're dating," you declare, looking towards your group of fuckboys before turning to Ann and Ryuji, who looked miffed. "Nothing to see here, folks."

"No, we're--"

You knee him in the gut, shutting him up almost immediately.

"He just couldn't help himself," you go on, patting him gently on the cheek. "He's been a very, very bad boy..."

*

In the thick of night, he returns to your palace alone.

It's quieter today. No doubt, you're taking care to guard that treasure of yours with your undivided attention. Probably for good reason, too.

Joker knows exactly what he must do now.

Rescue Morgana.

Rob your treasure.

Destroy your palace.

**Bang!**

There's a gunshot in the distance and he has some slinking feeling that it's _you_ , and he's not wrong, but when he looks towards the shack, he sees blood on the floor -- and it's not a dog that's bleeding, but _you_.

Or at the least, the projection of you.

There's a child towering over you, a shotgun in her hand.

No.

Not a child.

 _You_.

"Not this again," you murmur, wiping away a stream of blood that's just beginning to trickle down your chin. "You're so fucking annoying, you know that? I was doing fine until you decided to wake up. Just stay in your room and be a good girl, instead of causing all this trouble."

The child version of you sneers, pulling the trigger.

There's another resounding gunshot that punches that air, then silence.

When the dust settles and clears, you're nowhere to be found and what's left on the ground is your gun, your blood, and a dead hound in your place.

The child whistles that little tune -- that same little tune you'd been whistling last time he visited -- and skips off towards the industrial wasteland in the distance.

Suddenly, Joker understands.

"Took you long enough!"

Morgana materializes from the shadows of the beams, looking somewhat bitter as he makes himself known. "I was waiting _forever_ ," he moans. "Her treasure appeared this morning and they've been fighting each other ever since. It gave me a chance to breathe, but--"

Joker studies the bloodstained path in your wake, "Her treasure...is her."

"Her _innocence_ , to be exact. Outside the shack, she's a human child, but inside the palace, she's nothing more than a doll," Morgana corrects, looking grim. "Listen, Joker, there's something I need to tell you, but we'll have to wait until after this is over... It might be hard to stomach."

He pauses.

"First, we need to steal the treasure and find an escape route," the cat goes on, looking at your shack. "I've lined the basement with bombs and have an idea of luring her treasure through the doors, but the question is her shadow..."

"Leave it to me," says Joker.

*

It doesn't take him long to find you, sheltered in the corpses of your prey, somewhere far along the back alley of your shack in the shadows.

When you look at him, you laugh, "Really? _Seriously? I_ just can't catch a break, huh."

"I'm not here to fight," he says, watching you climb to your feet. "Not that you're in any shape. It wouldn't be fair."

"Ha," you sound unconvinced, clutching your gut in pain as you fall forward -- and he catches you just in time before you can collapse. "How chivalrous of you."

He lowers you to the ground, listening for gunshots in the distance.

"You're here to buy time for your little feline friend," you say, smiling.

He sighs, "Now that you know, I'm going to have to kill you."

"Go ahead," you look indifferent, leaning against his shoulder. "I've been trying for a while now."

He looks at you, wondering if it's true, but from the look on your face it doesn't seem like you're fucking with him. Still, that smile on your face is indelible, and when you sigh, it's flighty and full of whimsy like you don't have a single care in the world. "We could always run off, you and me," you tell him. "Too bad we're just stuck here waiting while your cat is off to destroy my house. And my treasure. Though it's for the better, I guess. She's a _bitch_."

"I don't doubt that," he says. "She probably learns from her maker."

You sigh, "That hurts, y'know."

"More than a gunshot through your stomach?"

You don't hesitate. "Way more."

Joker's laugh is more disdainful than even yours. You notice.

"We could always fight your treasure," he offers. "Together."

"Or," you interject, taking a breath. "We could have sex."

A moment of silence passes and he feels you shift against his shoulder.

OK, so maybe this is a bad idea. But you're the one who offered and he's the one who's horny, and instinctively, he feels his erection press up against the leather of his pant leg as he studies the curve of your breasts and your eyes -- full of desire and lust.

He smirks, "How can I refuse?"

 _How can he refuse indeed_.

At this, your eyes light up, all aversions to stifling the blood of your wound gone as you crawl into his lap, straddling him. There's a breath of hesitation before you lean in, lips crashing against his, and suddenly you're kissing, full-on making out in the shadows of the industrial beams, a slew of corpses in your wake.

Certainly not the sexiest place to fuck, but _whatever_.

The fantasy of touching you between the legs is nothing compared to the reality because you're writhing, whimpering, and whispering dirty, dirty things in his ear as he feels the stickiness of your folds against your underwear. _Bet you'd like to taste me too_ ; _I want you inside me when I cum_ ; _you want to feel me cum around your cock, right?_ And oh. _Oh_. That's quite a lot to take in.

He pushes away the cloth of your underwear, slipping one gloved finger inside you.

The contrast is dizzying, the red of his gloves against the pink of your slick folds. Your eyes are hazy and you press two more sloppy kisses to the side of his cheek before he starts thrusting his finger into you softly, _curling them just right_ enough to make you soaked instantaneously.

"Right here," you say, taking his other free hand and pressing the soft pad of his gloved middle finger to your clit. "Just like this." You guide him to the soft bundle nerves at the peak of your cunt, teaching him how to touch you, how to circle it just right enough to make the white dopamine rush shoot straight through your stomach over and over...

It occurs to him that he may not be a virgin after this -- or is he? You're technically a shadow, a projection of yourself, but this doesn't necessarily feel wrong because he wants this; you want this; and that's all that really matters.

"That's it," you murmur, as he finds his rhythm. "Oh, that's good--good--"

With his mouth, he clamps down on your collarbone, cutting you short.

You yelp, "Hey! That hurt."

But he slips another finger inside you and you're craning your head back, moaning his name as the heel of his palm rubs against his clit while you hump his hand. "Good, that means you'll remember," he mutters, tugging away the hemline of your bralette, clamping his lips around your nipple -- so supple and soft, like butter in his mouth. "You're such a good girl, aren't you?"

"I--"

There's something so carnal about the way you look, this manic and desperate little whimper you offer him on a silver platter because there's nothing else in this world you want except more.

Impatiently, he sucks and feels himself go hard against your thigh -- and he realizes he quite likes that little gasp you give him as he curls his finger even harder inside you.

"Fuck," you mutter. "You learn fast."

Next thing he knows you're diving for his belt buckle -- everything is going too fast, _too quickly --_ and suddenly his cock is out, prodding at your entrance.

It's warm, prettily flared, and slick with precum. He rubs the head against your folds, and the wetness of your slick mixes in and suddenly he can't wait to feel himself inside you because _god the fantasy of sex is nothing compared to the real deal -- everything about it smells sour and_ heady, exactly what sex should smell like.

He slides into you slowly, not all at once, and you nearly hiss at the sensation, writhing on your back as your breasts bounce.

Because you feel so fucking warm and _full_.

Sure, you wish he had his coat off -- that he had his shirt off too so you could feel the expanse of his chest -- but this isn't half bad either.

He palms your breast, pinching your nipple between his gloved fingers, still wet with your slick, and he can feel how warm you are around his cock, _how sticky and wet you feel_ , how you're squeezing him for every inch he's worth -- and it's all too much, the sensation's overwhelming, and he's almost too sure this is going to be the death of him.

He already knows he's going to finish fast, what with your bare breasts bouncing as he thrusts himself inside you, the whimpers you offer him, _the way you're moaning his name_ , your breath sticky against his neck. It's overstimulation, _too much feeling at once_ , and it's about to send him over the edge.

"Next time you should eat me out," you whisper, running your fingers through his hair.

Apparently that's all it takes.

Something inside him snaps -- tips over like a cup full of wine. And suddenly his cock is twitching inside you, unloading his seed while you moan his name over and over again.

You're panting, meeting his gaze with those eyes full of resolve and desire. "We have to do this again," you tell him as an explosion sounds off in the distance.

He brushes a lock of hair away from your face, "Only if you ask nicely."

You smile, "I can be a good girl too."

The rubble of your shack is collapsing and he can feel himself go soft inside you.

Still, you're so fucking beautiful he can't take his eyes off you.

*

When Akira returns to the real world, it's with a sting of disappointment.

"She's not a bad person," says Morgana, slipping into empty contents of his bag while a thundercloud rolls in overhead with a loud clap. "Those men she killed..." He pauses a moment while Akira goes to collect his bearings, not without sparing your house one last look. "Her feelings towards them were valid."

"What does _that_ mean?"

The cat shifts, poking his head through opening on the other side. "Hm...maybe we'll talk about it some other time," he murmurs softly, staring at the light in your window. "When you're back from Hawaii."

Akira nods, albeit hesitantly, turning his heel towards the station down the block.

He glances over his shoulder.

Lightning crackles and suddenly it's raining again.

*

After packing, Akira relaxes in bed, staring at the ceiling and counting the cracks to pass time.

Morgana yawns, "You should get some rest. We had a long day."

He's inclined to agree, but there's a knock on the door that forces him to sit up straight. "A visitor at this hour?" The cat quips, hopping onto the ledge of the window. "Maybe Sojiro forgot his keys."

"Maybe." Akira slinks to his feet, coming down the stairs with his hands buried deep in his pockets while Morgana follows him closely from behind. "Hm..."

It's storming -- rain is pelting the window so he can't quite get a good look at who's on the other side, so imagine his surprise when he finds **you** , standing in the frame, blinking in surprise when you meet his gaze.

Morgana hops onto the counter, studying you. "What does she want?"

Your pajamas are totally soaked wet -- you're not wearing a bra, for some reason, he doubts you're wearing any underwear. "Hi," you say, somewhat dumbly as you hug yourself for warmth. "Um..."

Akira cocks his head to the side, "Do you want to come in?"

Hesitantly, you take a step forward, leaving a puddle by the entrance that he'll undoubtedly have to clean up before Sojiro arrives tomorrow morning. He takes a step back, only to bump into the counter of the bar, jolting Morgana out of his reverie with an antsy _meow_.

"Take a seat," he says. "I'll brew you a cup of--"

Before he gets the chance, you lean up and kiss him..

 _Cold, cold, cold,_ he thinks, feeling you pressed up against him, soaking his shirt completely through. Your lips are cold, and so is your tongue, and it takes him a second to realize he's kissing you back -- that this feels all too familiar to him, that this--

You pull back, staring at him. "Sorry," you mutter, blushing red. "This is crazy. _I'm crazy_. I didn't...I swear I didn't mean..."

And you laugh, but it's weak, _broken_ , and dizzyingly confused.

A pause.

Whatever wheel that's been turning in your head lurches to a complete halt as you regain your senses, looking up to meet his gaze.

"Actually, that's exactly what I meant."

Morgana yelps from behind the counter, shielding his eyes, "This is bad."

But Akira doesn't care -- he leans in, grabs you by the back of your neck, and pulls you in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's talk about sexii ass akira/ren on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not quite done with the game yet and i know the fandom has dipped because it's been, like, four years since the game's release BUT i... don't care.... because i love akira kurusu...?? this is all self-indulgent and was initially meant as a one-shot but it eventually ballooned to 10,000 words which then ballooned to 15,000 words and things got out of hand, what else is new :')
> 
> standard tags apply! rated E to be on the safe side as things ramp up. (i also don't expect this to be more than 3 chapters, so... breathe easy!)
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186049363@N05/49431469476/in/dateposted/)  
> 
> 
> our lovely OC 8)
> 
> TALK TO ME ABOUT PERSONA ON [TWITTER!!!](%E2%80%9C)


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